


The Lord Don't Like It, But The Devil Don’t Mind

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Amoral Malia, Amoral Peter, Amoral Stiles, Amorality, Cock & Ball Torture, Confinement, Daddy Kink, Dark Stiles, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, F/M, Incest, Injury, M/M, Mild Puppy Play, Multi, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Non-Consensual Bondage, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory, Stockholm Syndrome, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4708880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might be the pain that wakes him, or the pleasure.  He’s not sure.  It’s all twined together in the same twisted, writhing ball of sensation— all of it agony and ecstasy, all of it too much.</p><p>---</p><p>Set in imagined Post-5B.  No matter how many horrible things he’s done, Scott still wants to keep Theo alive.  Stiles can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lord Don't Like It, But The Devil Don’t Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god what am I doing

It might be the pain that wakes him, or the pleasure. He’s not sure. It’s all twined together in the same twisted, writhing ball of sensation, regardless— all of it agony and ecstasy, all of it _too much_.

“Oh, there he is.” The voice is nearby, but not near enough to be the cause of the fiery throbbing of his skin, as if his entire body is one raw, infected wound. Or the hot, wet suction on his cock. “I said your mouth was magic, didn’t I, babe?”

Theo forces his eyes to open, fighting the grittiness and the sharp, disgusting tug where his lashes are glued together. Glued together with what? He has no idea, and guessing is a waste of time. Nothing is clear. The world is a blur, blinding spots of light and colour. The stench of blood is too thick to smell anything else.

“There he is,” the voice says again, softer, but not kind. It sounds cooly detached. Curious.

There are no dissonant clicks, or harsh, mechanized rasping, but his pulse speeds up anyway.

Blinking helps clear his vision, but not enough. The voice is still just a dark shape, prowling closer, closing in. Panic crawls up from Theo’s stomach, sour and squeezing, and it only gets worse the moment he realises he _can’t move_.

“I can’t tell if he’s actually with us.” A hand grips his chin, blunt fingers digging into his jaw, and Theo tries so hard to bare his teeth. To bite, to snarl, _anything_ more than the meagre little grimace he manages. “Ugh, he’s a mess. Jesus. Hey, wakey wakey, asshole.”

The slap is sudden, firm, and unexpected enough to rattle his brain in his skull. Theo blinks again, eyes wetter. The fire licking across his skin stings white-hot across his cheek, blazing like a brand where he was struck.

He gasps, sucking in a desperate lungful of air that feels like ground glass dragged down his throat. His muscles seize, and he thrashes violently against whatever’s holding him down— bands of pressure on his neck, his chest, elbows, and wrists. He can arch his spine, jerk his shoulders slightly, but everything below the waist is pinned securely, not shifting a fraction of an inch. Every move is a fresh wave of pain, lapping at him, relentless as a tide.

Through all of this, the mouth on his dick hasn’t let up, bobbing steadily, tonguing around his foreskin and teasing the slit. And it is definitely a mouth, he knows that now. Just like he knows that fucking voice.

“Hey there, handsome,” Stiles says, grabbing his jaw and jerking his head up again. Things are coming into focus now. Theo can make out the grey and green stripes of Stiles’ shirt, the pale column of his throat— he squints, trying to force it, and he can see Stiles looking back at him. Brown eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, glinting like chips of glass in the too-bright lighting, and ringed with smudged, tired bruises. His cheekbones stand out sharply, like knives pressing from beneath moon pale skin, swooping into deeply carved hollows.

Stiles looks starved, wretched, half-dead. A corpse that doesn’t have the sense to lie down.

There’s a twist of satisfaction in the centre of Theo’s chest, tight and throbbing hot. He did this. Weeks of sleepless nights and haunted days, of trying to keep one step ahead of Theo’s pack. Weeks of rising tensions, of stress points fracturing, falling to pieces— Scott McCall’s perfect, precious pack finally honing the razor edges they were meant to have, despite the bleating of their useless, spineless Alpha. All they needed was a whetstone, something to cut their teeth and sharpen their claws on, and Theo had provided them with plenty.

Weeks and weeks of blood, rage, and death, and before that, all the fun he’d had testing Stiles’ defenses, getting under his skin, prodding and poking at any soft spot. Prying him out of his shell; baiting the monster Theo could see lurking just under the surface.

Stiles’ hair is buzzed short now, hugging his skull like a shadow. It makes him look even more skeletal and severe, but fragile at the same time. A wicked, red cut slices over his scalp, from his left temple, back to his crown, and there’s a gruesome row of staples holding it shut. It’s definitely going to scar, and that’s only the most visible of the marks Theo has left on this beast in boy’s clothing.

Whatever happens to Theo now, it’s worth it.

He can’t speak— his throat is too tight, and his tongue is strangely heavy in his mouth— but he dredges up something like a smile. It pulls at his dry lips, stinging as they split.

“Isn’t that pretty.” Stiles returns the smile, all teeth, then turns his attention down to whoever is still sucking Theo’s dick. “You not bored yet, babe?”

The mouth hums, pleasure sparks like electric shocks in Theo’s balls and up his spine, but he can’t thrust forward like he wants to. He also can’t cum. A hand wraps around the root of his dick, tightening like a noose. Air hisses out of his nose, and his jaw clenches; it’s the only response he’s capable of at the moment.

“I know, right?” Stiles looks up again, meeting Theo’s gaze. “She’s really good at giving head. Like, intimidatingly good. I can’t even take all the credit— I mean, before now, she’d never sucked anybody else’s dick except mine, and I did give her a couple of pointers at first. But to be honest, a lot of this is just natural talent and enthusiasm. She gets off on it, too. It’s great.”

There’s a filthy slurp, a wet pop, and Theo’s dick is suddenly left cold, hanging free and split-slick.

“This is weird.” Malia. A little hoarse, but that’s undeniably the werecoyote's voice. Theo is disturbed that he couldn’t identify her by smell, but blood and the sourness of his own bile are still the only scents in his nose.

Stiles makes an encouraging noise, releasing his tight grip on Theo’s chin. Without support, Theo’s neck can’t bear the weight; his head drops limply, and now he’s looking down at his own body. And at Malia, kneeling at his feet. Her mouth is pink and wet, and her eyes are on Stiles. She’s fully dressed, with barely a hair out of place. The normalcy of her pretty floral blouse and relaxed demeanour is slightly jarring, oddly dissonant considering the situation, but it’s not nearly as much of a shock as the rest of the picture spread out before him.

Theo is strapped to what might be a gurney, or some kind of examination table; whatever it is, it’s tilted up, so he’s nearly standing, and hard under his bare back. The restraints he felt when he first woke up are dark straps that look like leather, but are holding him down like fucking titanium. Now that he can see them, he struggles again, jerking his arms and ignoring the hellfire that screams through his muscles and bones when he strains. He manages to rattle the cuffs holding his wrists, but it’s pitiful. Barely a fidget.

He’s also completely naked, which shouldn’t be surprising. He hadn’t noticed the weight of fabric on his skin, just air and that sharp, lingering soreness. It feels as if he’s been scoured raw. He expects to see wounds to match the pain, healing too slowly for whatever reason, but there isn’t a single cut or bruise. His skin seems unmarked, despite what his other senses are telling him. All he sees is bare, tanned flesh, with a few smears of dry, flaking blood. It doesn’t make sense.

“It’s not really bad,” Malia says, but she wrinkles her nose, as though she’s smelled something unpleasant. “It’s different, though. Am I supposed to do something with this?” Without warning, she pushes his foreskin back, peeling the head of his dick. It’s too rough, too sudden, but the discomfort barely registers. It’s a blip in blanket of pain suffusing the rest of his body.

“Well, my first instinct is to tell you to bite it off.” The wrist restraints rattle again, still just as weakly as before. Theo can’t help the reaction of pure, blind panic, but he regrets letting even that much show when Stiles laughs.

“Stiles.” Malia sounds fondly exasperated, and doesn’t spare a flicker of notice at Theo. It’s better than her teeth tearing into his dick, even if he doesn’t relax one iota.

“Okay, alright, I’m joking. Mostly.” Stiles laughs again, but the cruelty fades from the sound as he combs his fingers through Malia’s hair, brushing it gently back behind her ear. “Remind me to read you this paper I wrote, back in sophomore year. Or the highlights, anyway. History of the male circumcision. Fascinating stuff.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Malia says, butting her head against Stiles’ hand. For a few seconds, Theo thinks they might have forgotten he’s even in the room. Or they don’t care. “Just tell me what to do with it. I know you know.”

“The wonders of the foreskin,” Stiles says dramatically, and Malia rolls her eyes. “It’s just more to play with, really. Usually means the head underneath is more sensitive, but that can depend on the dick. Everybody’s different. Seriously, just play with it. Lick under it, tug a little bit, stuff like that. Don’t be too rough, unless you want it to hurt.”

Stiles’ hand darts out, and a blaze of agony tears a croaky, broken howl from Theo’s throat. It’s the first noise he’s made since he woke up, and it’s like razorwire being yanked up from his stomach.

There are black spots dancing in front of Theo’s eyes when the pain finally stops. After Stiles stops pinching his fingernails into the bare, wet head of Theo’s dick and twisting it like he’s unscrewing a bottle cap.

“—practice all you want.” Theo only catches the tail end of whatever Stiles is saying. He’s breathing too hard to hear the rest; the roar of his pulse is too loud in his ears. “You’re the one who’s curious, so go for it. Have fun. It’ll all heal.”

It’s all a plan to scare him, obviously. The McCall Pack may have splintered, may have all but shattered completely in Theo’s hands before the end, but there’s no way Scott’s going to let Stiles completely off his leash. Not after Theo made absolutely certain that their resident True Alpha got a good look at the monster he calls a best friend. His so-called brother has been baptised in blood, filled to the brim with the darkness twining around his heart, and it’s beautiful.

It’s the most beautiful thing Theo’s ever seen; Scott’s just too stupid to appreciate it.

Theo gets his breathing under control, with some effort. He’s able to force his head up a couple of inches, enough to look at Stiles through his lashes.

He expects to see the asshole smirking, or still ignoring him. What he gets is the full-force of Stiles’ stare, steady and unblinking.

It’s the shadow of exhaustion and all the weight he’s lost that makes the whole thing look so sinister. That’s why Stiles’ eyes are so dark, like empty sockets in a skull. Theo knows better than most that Stiles is dangerous, but he’s contained. Restrained, just as much as Theo is at the moment. Despite Theo’s best efforts, Stiles is still tethered to Saint McCall and his idiotic ideas of morality, even if those bonds are frayed to tatters.

“We’re all gonna have so much fun,” Stiles says quietly, reaching out and hooking two fingers under Theo’s chin, lifting his face a little bit more. It’s bizarrely gentle, but that’s all part of the game, to keep Theo on his toes. Moments of mercy, to frame the brutality. Remind Theo of kindness, to make the threats more terrifying. It’s so obvious, now that Theo’s mind is clearing. It’s nearly disappointing.

A flicker of something strange and profoundly cold steals over Stiles’ expression. The best lies have an element of truth. Yes, Stiles is dangerous. He’s lethal. But he’s also impotent, no matter how sweetly the remnants of the Void whisper in his ears.

Theo doesn’t shiver, or look away. He’s survived worse than whatever petty torments Stiles Stilinski is going to offer.

The McCall Pack isn’t going to kill him; he’ll survive this too. Theo has all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will probably be sporadic and sparse, but this will eventually contain all the goodies in the tags, with potential for additions depending on my inspiration. I’m working on this between other things, when I feel like being unapologetically gross and just rolling around in it. 
> 
> I expect each chapter to be a short vignette, detailing Theo’s experiences being trained by his new keepers. Because that’s where this is going, folks. Daddy Peter, his two little sweethearts, and their new puppy, who is very bad but may one day learn to be a good boy. Dedication and a firm hand can work wonders with naughty pups.
> 
> Title from “Devil Do” by Holly Golightly & the Brokeoffs


End file.
